


Cherchez La Femme

by Felgia_Starr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Crimes & Criminals, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, French Draco Malfoy, Google Translate's all I have, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, Prompt Fic, Reconciliation, most likely Historically Inaccurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-04 03:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felgia_Starr/pseuds/Felgia_Starr
Summary: Draco attempts to move on after a terrible tragedy. He ignores his father’s letters from France and travels to the States. He claims he wants to start a new, normal life with a new, normal identity, far away from all the guns and gangs his father has put him in, so why does he choose to go to Chicago of all places?





	1. Début

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: London is getting dangerous, especially with the dealings his father is caught up in. With the Great War over, maybe a fresh start in the States. Chicago can’t be that dangerous in 1920 right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cherchez la femme is a French phrase that literally means "look for the woman."**
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> Would like to say that I don't speak French at all & all the French stuff that has been said in this story is from Google Translate. Yeah, I know it's shit, but it's all I have.

His mother was dead.  
  
Narcissa Druella Black was now ashes and dust, trapped in a traditional cremation urn, no longer able to see the light. Her wishes to be alongside her dead sisters in the ugly, dank columbarium of the Black family had been granted. Her son could only hope that she rested—and that she rested well in a place where she could finally be heard by the simple-minded men that had refused to listen to her pleas when she’d been alive. He hoped she was safe above all, that she could no longer be harmed by anyone, not even by herself.  
  
Draco could not take his eyes off the name that had been engraved in white marble. His mother deserved better than being trapped in another dark and ancient place. Her name should be presented atop a hill, where the trees embraced her and the flowers befriended her, and where the sun bestowed its bright rays upon her blonde hair, making her own golden crown shine brighter than the stars.  
  
Narcissa Black deserved to be bathed in the colourful petals that sprung whenever she was near. She deserved life and flowers, but now, she was in a cold place filled with lifeless vines and moss.  
  
His mother had been taken from the world too soon and too harshly. He could not even remember the last words he had spoken to her before he found out she had been murdered in her own home—in the house she’d been raised, in the house she’d thought was the safest.  
  
The shocked expression she must have worn when her attackers invaded her home haunted him everywhere he went. Her corpse even more so. The crimson blood that had poured from between her legs, the haunting smile that had been slashed through her face, and the harsh bruises on her body that had covered her like an evening gown appeared more clearly in his head than his first memory with her ever did.  
  
Draco Malefoy had a ton of regrets. Not spending enough time with his mother before she died was one of them. He regretted moving away from her so early. He regretted leaving her all alone in her ancient home with only her dead ancestors’ portraits as company. He never should’ve left her.  
  
Something wet dripped down his cheek, and he wiped it away quickly with a gloved hand. He had not cried in a long time, not since he was 15, he believed, when his mother left his father and they left for London. It felt like a lifetime ago.  
  
Was his father grieving at the moment, he wondered? Was his mind slowly giving into guilt and insanity? Was he blaming himself for the death of his former wife? Or did he brush off the loss like lint on his robes? Did he breathe out a sigh of relief when the news of her passing arrived? Had he ever actually cared?  
  
His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms, as he thought of the ways his father could have reacted. He knew Lucius Malefoy had something to do with this. His mother never would have been brutally beaten, raped, and murdered if his father hadn’t angered someone dangerous. He must’ve done something wrong.  
  
More tears came crashing down his face, and this time, Draco did not have the heart to wipe them away. Perhaps his mother would appreciate them. Perhaps she would be flattered to know he was still grieving for her.  
  
He could not bear to keep staring at her monument, though. He did not like to be constantly reminded of her death. If he continued, he was sure he’d rot away with her, and he knew his mother wouldn’t like that.  
  
When he left the columbarium, Draco found the rain a comforting addition to his miserable day. He refused to shy away from the cold drops, feeling as though it was the least he could do to atone for letting his mother die. He let the raindrops punish his clothes, prick his glacial skin, and replace the hot tears on his face.  
  
Never in his life had he felt so useless and empty.

* * *

Draco threw his father’s letter into the fireplace in pure rage. Later, he would regret this and wish that he could read the letter for a second time, but at the moment, he was furious.  
  
He was right all along, and he hated it.  
  
Two weeks after his mother’s funeral, his father’s letter had finally arrived on his doorstep. He’d refused to read it at first, but his curiosity and need for vengeance got too much, and he’d ripped open the envelope as soon as he’d gotten home from his clinic.  
  
The entirety of the letter had been written in French, the selfish, paranoid bastard his father was. It had begun with his father asking asinine questions as usual—he’d even asked how well Draco was doing and said how terribly sorry he was for being unavailable at the day of his mother’s entombment.  
  
If he had read this letter seven years ago and he was fifteen again, Draco would’ve believed in everything his father told him, but his mother had long since cleansed most of Lucius’s influence on him. At the moment, there was nothing in the world he hated more than he did his own father.  
  
Then, Draco had skipped to the interesting bits, uninterested in his father’s platitudes. He’d found out the truth, and he was right—his father had everything to do with the death of his mother.  
  
Lucius Malefoy had apparently lost to Antoinette Zabini in an inane gambling game of sorts. And because his father was an utter prick, he’d refused to pay Zabini’s winnings, ran to Manoir des Malefoy in Marseille, and had hidden there, knowing the Cosa Nostra would not touch him in France. Of course, his father hadn’t thought of what his own actions could do to his family in London. His mother hadn’t had the chance to hide in an old mansion, surrounded by loyal members of his father’s precious Draconian Syndicate and other allies from _Le Milieu_.  
  
His fingers itched for something to punch, and he carelessly drove his right fist into the wall, already feeling his knuckles bleed shortly after. It was fine. The pain let him know that he was still alive.  
  
His useless father also had the audacity to lie to him—to tell him that he continued to worry about him. He’d said he did not want any harm to come to the next leader of the Draconian Syndicate, that he’d always badly wanted to protect him and raise him in their own territory, but his mother had always been stubborn as well, he’d mentioned, and that she’d never wanted Draco to be involved in any Malefoy-related business.  
  
“ _Connerie,_ ” muttered Draco as he thought back to his father’s words in the message he’d just burnt. He never did manage to completely get rid of his usage of French and his accent when he would speak English. He could fake a good amount of different accents though, some without even trying.  
  
Lucius had written that he would like for Draco to move to Manoir des Malefoy immediately—or at least somewhere in France, somewhere he could watch over him. His father had said that he would not be safe in London any longer after what had happened to his mother and that it would be best for his well-being if he moved back to France.  
  
Fuck that. If they were still being stalked by the Zabinis, then he was absolutely certain that his father still hadn’t paid them, the frugal bastard he was. Lucius Malefoy had all the money in the world to attend auctions and buy all the foreign whores he wanted, but paying for his debts to a dangerous Italian family was simply out of the question for his egotistical father.  
  
Draco refused to go back to a place where guns and violence awaited him. He knew what terrible things his father could do to his mind and how it affected his behaviour. His mother wanted him to forget that sort of life, to turn around and begin anew.  
  
Out of nowhere, he heard the soft, serene voice of his mother whispering into his ear, “ _Give up the gun, dragon.”_  
  
He turned his head back instantly, expecting to see her cold yet beautiful face behind him, smiling slightly just as she always had. Instead, he saw the painting of a garden that she’d given him on his 20th birthday. She’d loved it more than he ever did, told him how much the pale colours reminded her of him. He’d never liked it, but now he felt as though he couldn’t live without staring at it for hours a day.  
  
Before he realized it, warm tears stained his cheeks for the second time that night. His heart was in a constant state of aching. It was not fair. Why hadn’t they gotten to him first? Why had they murdered his mother—why not him? Why not his father? Why not anybody except his mother?  
  
It might be his father’s harsh training talking, but he would like for his mother’s murderers to perish. He couldn’t give up his gun until he caused those worthless Italians to bleed to their deaths. Perhaps he should attack their mothers as well, have them be raped and beaten before he tore their faces off until they were unrecognizable.  
  
“ _Give up the gun._ ” The words haunted him without cease every time he did anything but. It was the Malefoy in him, everybody else had said whenever he would let the rage fuel his heart, and those moments would be the only few times Draco embraced his French heritage.  
  
Lucius Malefoy had always told him that anger could do so much more than sadness, that it was better for him to give into the burning fury than the wilting petals of grief because mourning never accomplished a lot.  
  
His eyes focused in on the painting once more, the grey and blue daffodils seemingly conveying some sort of secret message that Draco could never fully comprehend to save his life.  
  
Whispering a meaningful apology to his deceased mother, Draco, for once in his life, thought that maybe his father was right about one thing.

* * *

Someone was following him. Draco would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared. Truthfully, he was fucking terrified.  
  
He kept calm on the outside though, recalling his father’s words of faux wisdom: “ _To be seen as afraid is to raise a white flag in defeat._ ” It would be utterly disgraceful and craven to open up one’s afraid expression to the world. Defeat and loss were worse fates than death. And so, like he always had done, Draco pretended as though the man following him wasn’t there.  
  
The man’s footsteps were now as familiar to him as his mother’s voice had been, for he’d been following Draco for weeks, ever since his mother’s death. His footfalls were heavy and sharp on the pavement. The man always walked slower than Draco did, keeping at least five steps away from him.  
  
The man’s silhouette waited for him every night outside his clinic. The man would always stand by the same tree, in the same pose, and with the same obsessive glare. He was burly and tall, usually wearing dark robes and a hat.  
  
The footsteps behind him quickened and his heartbeat quickened with them. His hand instinctively travelling to the gun sheathed in a holster inside his coat, he swallowed his fear and gripped the inner Malefoy that he knew was hidden somewhere within him.  
  
The man was much closer to him now, and Draco could feel him breathing on his neck. He summoned up all the courage that his father had forced upon him long ago as he paused in his tracks and turned completely around to face the man behind him. Finally, he saw the man’s appearance.  
  
The man was dark-skinned with a sharp nose, thick lips, and rounded eyes. If he were to estimate, he would say this man was the same age as him, but of course, he couldn’t know that just by staring at him.  
  
He let a small smirk settle on his face as he greeted the man in a perfectly-rehearsed English accent, “Good evening, sir.”  
  
The man also halted, eyebrows raised in a flabbergasted expression for a quick second before his face turned blank. “Good evening.”  
  
Draco took notice of the man’s thick, Italian accent. He only did more to confirm his suspicion that he was being hunted by the Zabinis. This man was most likely one of Antoinette’s henchmen.  
  
“May I ask why you are walking so closely behind me?” he spoke casually, as though he wasn’t currently fearing for his life just like his father had taught him.  
  
“I was not,” the man denied.  
  
Draco forced a hopefully convincing chuckle. “Of course. Perhaps you know me from somewhere?”  
  
“You’re Draco Malefoy,” he spat. An uncomfortable chill sat on Draco’s stomach as the man enunciated his name, French pronunciation and all. Though he distracted himself by thinking of how strange French sounded on an Italian accent.  
  
“Thank you for saving me from the uncomfortable introduction that was surely about to come,” Draco said, a laugh lacing his tone. “I’m afraid that I have yet to know your name, friend.”  
  
“I’m not your friend!” the man growled, his posture shifting to a defensive stance.  
  
“Forgive me for assuming then,” offered Draco. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers as to look more casual. “Care to give your name, sir?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Don’t you think it’s rather rude of you to—”  
  
He cut him off. “No.”  
  
“Can you at least tell me where you are headed, sir?” asked Draco, hoping that his voice only conveyed curiosity and not a hint of interrogation.  
  
“I’m going home,” the man shortly answered, turning around and taking off before Draco could ask him another question.  
  
“Have a safe journey!” Draco called out as a goodbye. When the man was finally out of his sight, he heaved a sigh of relief, thinking that he should’ve engaged the man in conversation long ago.

* * *

Draco Malefoy was so very tired. His hands shook with paranoia, his eyelids opened half-heartedly, his back slouched in exhaustion—and he hadn’t slept in four days. He was tired and terrified. Tired and terrified, he was. Tired of living yet terrified for his life.  
  
He did not know what to do anymore.  
  
After he’d chosen to talk to the man who’d been following home for weeks, there came another threat. This time, no dark man in dark robes stalked him. Instead, a dark man in white robes who sat inside his Rolls Royce machine continued to cock his gun up and shoot occasionally as a sort of warning.  
  
He flinched when the man let loose another bullet up in the air, tugging at his now dirty blond hair in frustration. “Fuck.”  
  
He caught a glance of his fireplace and thought back to his father’s letter, remembering his invitation to Marseille. Should he go?  
  
Draco knew there wasn’t a safer place for a Malefoy than France. His father had ‘associates’ all over the damn country, and he would be recognized and protected by them without a single word. He himself had met with the main leaders of the French Mob and their protégés every year before he and his mother left the blasted country. They would know him certainly, but would they actually still think of him as an ally or a _traître?_  
  
But then he thought of the stupid smug expression his father would surely wear when Draco walked up the steps of Manoir des Malefoy. He thought of the different ways his father could manipulate, control, and use him. He thought of his mother and how she’d been utterly afraid of the person he’d become when he was 15. That had been the moment she’d finally snapped—when Draco came home with blood on his white trousers and a proud smile on his face. He’d killed someone that day, a treacherous and frankly useless someone, and his mother had looked close to tears. That had been when she’d finally decided to divorce—  
  
Another bullet cracked through the air.  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” shouted Draco, his head poking out the nearest window. When the man turned to him with an odd smile, he instantly took his head back inside.  
  
Several sudden thoughts came to him at once. Had his mother experienced the same things before she died? Had she been stalked and threatened before they’d pulled the trigger on her? Had she felt the same fear and same weariness after weeks of being followed? Was the man that followed him the one who’d ripped her skirts and ploughed right through her like a common whore? Was the man right next to this doorstep the same man who’d killed her?  
  
Fury burned through his chest as the awful questions flew across his head. Something dark and familiar and so very Malefoy clenched his heart, and he thought of pulling the gun out his drawer and shooting the man in the middle of the dirt road to let him die an unfortunate death. He should take the man deep into the forest around his home, Draco thought, and feed him to the wild animals that lived there.  
  
His hands subconsciously rushed to open his drawer, taking out the gun his father had sent him on his 18th birthday. The gun was always loaded, and at the moment, Draco couldn’t care to count the bullets within.  
  
When he was letting his fingers get used to the weapon, Draco faltered at the sight of the blue and grey daffodils on his wall. The peace and happiness the flowers implied seemed to mock and shame him.  
  
He fought back frustrated tears, conflicted between his father’s and mother’s lessons. The famed cruelty of the Malefoys flooded his veins, but the inner rebel of every Black fought back.

His father would tell him to just get it over with, to let the undeserving die already so as to save himself. His mother would convince him that no life was his to take, that it would be better to die with unbesmirched hands than to live knowing he’d intentionally done harm to another human being.  
  
The sound of another bullet being shot pierced his ears, and he lost what little hold he had on his self-control.  
  
The Malefoy cruelty won in the end, and surprisingly Draco did not feel the smallest of guilts. In truth, serenity and relief were all that washed over him as he watched the man’s blood run from his forehead to his face, and all he thought was, he could finally get a well-deserved rest.

* * *

Draco awoke a few hours before dawn, darkness all he could see and darkness all he could feel. He meant to bury the man he’d killed somewhere deep in the forest, where the animals would feed off him first before anybody noticed that he was gone. Draco wished he lived near sea instead so that the waves could eat away at the man’s skin slowly.  
  
He drove the dead man’s machine into the woods, the corpse emitting a foul smell as it rot beside him. The scent suffocated him, but at the same time, never had he been so comforted by a single smell until then. It felt good to know the man who kept him up every night was finally dead. It felt good to _kill._  
  
The rain poured down on him after he’d buried the man’s body, and that was the exact moment when the shame kicked in. He was ashamed, not for killing the man who’d threatened him, but for going against his mother’s wishes and disappointing her.  
  
As he stared up the dark early morning sky, Draco thought of his mother’s face back when he was 15, the unshed tears in her eyes, and how utterly frightened she looked back then.  
  
He cursed the evil that coursed through his veins. He cursed his father for instilling in him the cruelty and the inhumane. He cursed his mother for dying too damn soon. He cursed the war. He cursed everything that had led him to this very moment.  
  
Soon, the drops of rain and tears on his face intermingled until he could no longer tell them apart.

* * *

Draco held his forehead in his hand, rubbing his temple. He still had no idea what to do.  
  
Now that he’d killed one of them, the Zabinis would surely torture his body and mutilate him beyond recognition before they granted him a merciful death.

Now, he realized, it wasn’t only his father who’d done a mess. If anything, Draco had made it much, much worse.  
  
He did not want to go back to Marseille. In France, more violence, more guns, more blood, more gangs, and more guilt awaited him, and he wasn’t sure if he could continue living if all he felt was shame after bloodlust after shame. He would not live like that. He could not live like that.  
  
But he could not stay here either. London was becoming a much dangerous place than a battlefield, with so many different people that he didn’t know out to kill him hiding in plain sight. He might just have to burn his home down before he left the city.  
  
Draco heaved a sigh, knowing the right decision already. France was always safe for a Malefoy, and no matter how hard he tried to fight against his ancestry, he knew that he was a Malefoy through and through. Being safe was a better option than holding onto his pride. Dealing with his _connard_ of a father was better than the cruel fate he would have to face here in London.  
  
Truth was, Draco was afraid of death. The state of being dead often kept him up at night, especially after his mother had been brutally murdered. The afterlife frightened him as well, realizing that there was plenty of space for him in the burning depths of Hell and no place at all in the sweet paradise of Heaven, but the thought of no afterlife—the thought of there being absolutely nothing after death was another matter.  
  
When he was dead, his dreams of being a world-famous surgeon would never come true. The simple things he could do now—breathing, eating, seeing, smelling, feeling—could never be done again if he were buried six feet under, stiff and unmoving for eternity. And long after he was dead, no one would ever know his name again. No one would remember him anymore a hundred years after he died. No one would care even if his life was lived to the fullest. To future generations, he would be nothing. Not a surgeon, not a gangster, not a murderer, not a bad person who tried to do good. Centuries later, he would be bones and dust. Afterwards, he would truly be nothing.  
  
Of course, he was afraid of death. Who wouldn’t be?  
  
And because of that particular fact, Draco stretched his neck side-to-side, making a reluctant decision. He would go back to Marseille, to Manoir des Malefoy, no matter how much he hated the thought of it, for there was no place safer. And if the feud between the Zabinis and Malefoys ever died down, he would go back here. Perhaps he could even gather enough courage to go live in the Black residence.  
  
He searched for paper in which he could begin to write a response letter to his father, opening up drawers yet finding nothing. He reached the last drawer and sighed gratefully when he found a stained piece of paper. Taking the paper between two fingers, Draco opened it up on the table, only to find that it held content.  
  
He scanned his eyes over the carefully-written words of the letter, trying to recall where and who it came from.

_To Draco Malefoy, **mon amour,**_  
  
_**Tu seras toujours dans mon coeur**_  
_**Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime.**_  
  
_The Windy City is where you will find me_  
_There, I will give you the intimacy you’ve always longed for_  
_Sail an ocean for me, risk your life for me, change your love for me_  
_And maybe I will reconsider, maybe you will see me,_  
_And maybe I will love you again_  
  
_Yours always and forever,_  
_Granger._

He frowned, his mind faintly drawing up memories of this Granger girl. Some of his experiences with her seemed a tad bit blurry, but what remained clear to him was her appearance—the shape of her nose whenever she smiled at him, the way the sides of her brown eyes would crinkle whenever she laughed, and the brown curls on top of her head seemingly growing larger whenever he would manage to irritate her.  
  
He was 16 when he’d first met Granger, and if he remembered correctly, she was a year older than him. He couldn’t pinpoint how they’d exactly met, but he remembered that she'd been fascinated by his French accent and asked if she could learn the language from him. As a virginal adolescent boy, of course, he’d agreed, almost instantly taking a fancy to her. Before long, they’d developed some sort of romance.  
  
His mother had once described his being with the girl as a ‘scandalous dalliance’, and now that he was older, Draco agreed, lightly chuckling at the memories of them kissing and touching each other in inappropriate places.  
  
Why they eventually separated, Draco couldn’t recall. His memory had always been rather problematic, and it did not surprise him that he hadn’t thought of the girl in years before now.  
  
He wondered if he would still be able to find her in The Windy City she'd spoken of, in the States. He wondered if she would remember him, if she still waited for him after all these years. Draco doubted it but was glad that he found another option.  
  
He should go to the States, if only to search for this Granger girl whose first name he couldn’t even remember anymore. The United States was far enough away from Italy, he supposed, and he was sure the Americans wouldn’t dabble in such a dishonourable cause like organized crime. Also, they’d partaken later in the war and were most probably less affected than France was by it.  
  
Draco read the letter for the second time, relieved that he’d found an option where he didn’t have to surrender his pride.  
  
Maybe he didn’t have to find Granger, after all. Maybe he should just hide in the City of Chicago for the rest of his life, under a different name and appearance. Maybe he could start anew, away from all the gangs and guns and guilt. Finally.  
  
Yes, another chance at life sounded great to Draco’s ears. Maybe he could try making his mother proud this time, instead of dishonouring her memory.  
  
Draco smiled hopefully at the thought.  
  
He would need to start rehearsing his American accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna give my love to Littleguppy for taking the time to beta this thing! Thank you, girl!!! Couldn't have done this without you! ❤
> 
> Kudos & comments are highly appreciated! ❤


	2. Milieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want music playing in the background while you read this little piece, I suggest listening to The Godfather theme—I listened to it nonstop while writing!

In the States, the air seemed fresher somehow, or maybe it was because he could finally breathe freely for the first time in his life. Yes, that was it; he was free. Freer and more alive than he’d ever been before.  
  
There was a lightness that covered his heart, and he knew he could never let it go now that he’d gotten a taste of it.  
  
He was free. He was alive. He was new. He was John Orion White, an up-and-coming physician, born and raised in Midtown Manhattan. He frequented jazz clubs whenever he was not at work. He’d been disowned by his parents for ‘fraternizing with people of colour’. He’d been attempting to get away from his family’s shadow for quite a while now, moving from place-to-place and never finding a good reason to stay. He came to Chicago as a last resort, hoping the city would accept and love him.  
  
Orion was the name his mother had originally wanted to give him, and the last name White was a tribute to her maiden name. With this name, he would remember her, honour her, and make her proud. It was the name she would’ve wanted for him, so it was the name he’d chosen.  
  
He shook his head, willing the terrible thoughts away. In this life, he wanted to focus on more positive and happier things. This time, his father and his mother no longer held him like they would hold their hostages. In this life, he had an eternity to finally make choices for himself. This time, he wanted to do it better. And he _would_ do it better.  
  
He smiled to himself as he peeked outside the window of his newly-bought flat. Admittedly, the whole flat itself was smaller than the servants’ quarters in Manoir des Malefoy, and his former identity would not be caught dead anywhere near this shit-hole of a building, but for John Orion White, it was the best damn flat in the whole world.  
  
For the first time in forever, Draco looked forward to seeing tomorrow.

* * *

John travelled the city by walking in a white suit, searching for work and admiring the city at the same time. In truth, half-way through his journey, he’d neglected the former and had only successfully stared wide-eyed at some of the things he’d discovered. Wonders of a new place never failed to fascinate him, and he’d learned that Chicago’s wonders were buildings and different kinds of people. Everyone ignored him and how he looked amazed at some of the structures, and that was good enough for him.  
  
When the sun began to set, however, he knew it was time to go back to his new home. He would have to search for work tomorrow, then. Sighing in relief as he caught sight of the flat building he now lived in, John turned the corner.  
  
That was when he heard shuffling and some disembodied voices.  
  
“Where’s the fucking Northsiders?” a low voice demanded.  
  
When John inched closer to the source, his ears caught the sound of someone grunting as well as the familiar sound of a fist breaking through someone’s jaw.  
  
“I don’t—I don’t know!” another male voice wheezed.  
  
With a few more steps, John found himself facing a crime scene, six men surrounding what seemed to be a police officer in uniform lying on his own blood. His heartbeat quickened, his feet seemingly stuck to the ground as he watched the men torture the officer.  
  
“You useless fucking copper,” a man in blue trousers snarled, pulling out a handgun from his holster. “If you don’t tell us where the damn Northsiders are, I’ll blow your damn brains out.”  
  
John felt his shoulders drooping as the words rang in his head. How could he be so foolish?  
  
The police officer spat in one of the man’s faces, his blood mixed with his saliva landing on the man’s nose. The gunshot that followed did not faze him. How could it? He’d been hearing gunshots for so long that they almost sounded like a lullaby waiting for him to give in to sleep.  
  
The men began to argue with each other, and John remained frozen in his position, fists clenched, eyes wide, and lips open. How could he be so stupid?  
  
“Why did you shoot him?”  
  
“Button Man’s going to fucking murder you!”  
  
“He can murder me all he wants, we’re still not going to get information.”  
  
“Button Man said he wanted him alive—”  
  
“I know what he fucking said. I’ll deal with him.”  
  
“You think you can take Alessandro fucking Cattaneo and—”  
  
John was spotted by the man who still held a handgun.  
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
“Who’s this?”  
  
“Kill him before he gets to the coppers, you idiot!”  
  
As the words of the death threat were finally realized by his brain, John’s legs began to work again, instantly running to the other direction for safety. He heard several footsteps chasing him, but his feet kept speeding up. There was no fucking way he was going to die today.  
  
“Just let him go, Shiv-Wife’s going to take care of him, anyway,” one man pointed out right before John reached his limit, murmurs of agreement following his statement, and then... no one followed him anymore.  
  
Just to be certain, John ran for a few more minutes. When he halted somewhere besides a restaurant, his lungs burned in his chest, his calves screamed in pain, and his shoulders shook in exhaustion. His eyelids began to feel heavy, but he knew that he would not sleep anytime soon.  
  
Gripping his recently-dyed dark hair, John thought to himself: ‘ _How can I be so fucking dumb?’_  
  
He’d thought that he was going to have an easy life here in Chicago, that he’d already escaped the gangster life that seemed to follow him wherever he went, but he was dead wrong. His father was right; one could never escape this kind of life—one did not simply abandon his crime family. A person like him could never truly be free.  
  
Just when he’d thought life was going well for him, he fucking witnessed a gang murder.  
  
“ _The blood will never stop flowing, Draco,_ ” his father’s words repeated themselves in his head, his heavy French accent mocking him, “ _the guns will never stop shooting, the violence will never end when they all make you who you are._ **_Vous êtes draconien et draconien est vous._ ** ”  
  
He was Draconian, and Draconian was him. He could never run from it, and he was a bloody fool to have ever thought so. He was named after the fucking gang, after all. How could he forget where he came from? How could he ever forget something that was deeply embedded in his soul? How could he forget that the whole Draconian Syndicate itself was woven into his bloodline?  
  
Who’d he been kidding, anyway? He never could have lived a peaceful life as John Orion White, knowing that he was Draco Lucius of House Malefoy first. It had been a nice dream, he supposed, but he could never run from his true self for too long, his past always finding a way to catch up to him.  
  
He released a shaky breath, trying to regain his composure. He needed to get back to his flat and have time to think. He needed to conjure another plan.

* * *

He hadn’t come out of his flat for two days until now.  
  
The sun pierced through his eyes, its rays prickling his pale skin to the core. His feet heavy as they dragged along beneath him. The bridge of his nose ached, the pain travelling all the way to the back of his head. He felt like he was nothing but utter shit.  
  
He was frightened. Every step he took felt like he was edging closer to his death. Every time he turned his head, someone was watching the back of it—wishing he would drop dead and rot. Whenever his arm brushed against somebody else’s while he walked through the city, it felt like a gun being pointed at his heart, a finger ready on the trigger.  
  
After a person stalked a little too close behind him, Draco snapped, halting in his tracks and turning to face them, “Get away from me!”  
  
Whose face he saw shocked him, made his jaw drop and his eyes widen.  
  
How could he forget her endearing brown eyes? And the way they shone brightly in the sun? How could he forget the freckles that scattered across her nose? How could he forget the way her curls shaped her face? And lastly, how could he dare to forget the lips—those perfect lips—that had been the first to suck on his skin and get a taste of every part of him?  
  
_Granger._  
  
She looked stunned as well, her eyebrows shot up and her lips opened slightly. His heart slammed against his ribs, sweat dripped down his nape, and his stomach fluttered—did she recognize him?  
  
“Draco,” she said after a long while of them just taking each other in, as though she couldn’t believe it was truly him in front of her. His name sounded delightful on her tongue. She enunciated the two syllables the way his mother had, the English way, the way that made him believe that he could be a good person if he wished.  
  
He wanted to hear her say it again and again and again.  
  
He swallowed the inner adolescent boy that he hadn’t known still remained inside him and gave her a lazy, smug smile, deciding to let go of his former plan of starting anew and begin a new plan—a new plan where there was no plan at all, where he would only go wherever Fate wished him to be. “Granger.”  
  
Her captivating gaze went over his whole form, from his shoes to the top of his head, frowning when she came to a stop at his hair. “I didn’t recognize you from behind, forgive me. Your hair is… darker than I recall.”  
  
“Hair dye.”  
  
Granger slowly nodded. “You didn’t like your hair colour before?”  
  
“I actually liked it a lot.”  
  
“Then why—” she cut herself off, waving a hand to dismiss her trail of thought. “We haven’t talked in a while. Would you care to chat with an old friend over lunch?”  
  
Her smile was what ultimately sold him. She looked like the most trustworthy person in the world, and even as his father’s teachings along the lines of not trusting anyone ran through his mind, Draco smiled back at her and gladly accepted her invitation.

* * *

“How long have you been here in the States?” questioned Granger, sipping her tea.  
  
With her words, Draco remembered his plights. The short-lived vulnerability and safety he’d felt with Granger were now gone, replaced by terror once more. Taking his glass of water in his shaking left hand, he swallowed his true emotions down. “Not long.”  
  
A certain glaze passed over her eyes, and she looked at him as though he was an open textbook ready for the taking. He refused to admit that she made him comfortable, though.  
  
As she smiled a brilliant smile, the strange look upon her eyes disappeared. “I noticed that you got over your French accent. I assume you haven’t been back to Marseille in a while?”  
  
“Correct. I am not on good terms with my father at the moment, I’m afraid,” responded Draco stiffly before he simpered and removed all traces of his faux accent, “and French is in my veins, _ma chérie._ ”  
  
He knew he was treading dangerous waters by stripping himself off all pretences and baring his real, unadulterated self to Granger, but he had a feeling that everything he did was going to be worth it in the near future.  
  
“I haven’t spoken French in so long,” she admitted, picking at the food on her plate. “I think I’ve forgotten most of the words now.”  
  
Leaning across the table between them, Draco took one of her hands and stared at her face appreciatively. “I would be more than ecstatic to teach you the language again if you like.”  
  
Granger beamed at him, a pretty blush falling on her cheeks, but when she spoke, she did so with a whisper, “ _Oui, s’il vous plaît._ ”  
  
Flashes of different moments from his past appeared rapidly in Draco’s head—memories of her saying the exact same French words. He recalled asking her if he could kiss her for the first time—under a willow tree near the Black ancestral home, the sun setting above them as the shadows began to consume their huddled figures—and her uttering the same thing. He recalled being on his knees and licking her quim as she screamed out the words.  
  
His relationship with her was truly—in every meaning of the word—scandalous. He hadn’t even properly courted her before they entered into a purely sexual relationship. He briefly wondered what it was she had seen in him, and if she could see it again within him this time.  
  
“Hermione,” he breathed when he finally remembered her first name. He swore she'd shivered as he said it.  
  
“Draco,” her eyes were half-hooded as she uttered his name, a gentle smile on her lips. She stared at him like it was the first time she'd seen him—like he was something unbelievable. She looked at him the way she had when he first had congress with her, when they’d deflowered each other. He wished to have her beneath him again, writhing in pleasure and making her love for him known.  
  
Before now, Draco hadn’t known how much he’d actually missed her. Raising her hand to his lips, he gave her knuckles a kiss as he told her, “ _Tu es beau_ .”  
  
“I’m not quite sure I remember what that means,” she admitted, not daring to look away from him.  
  
“You are beautiful,” he repeated in English, giving her hand another kiss. “I’ve missed you, _ma chérie._ ”  
  
He cursed himself for forgetting about her. He should have been intent on searching for her after he’d graduated. He could not believe he’d spent so many years without thinking of her, without seeing and feeling her—so many years wasted for nothing. Not having found her sooner was truly growing to be Draco’s biggest regret.  
  
“Did you come here for me?” she asked the most important question of them all.  
  
He wanted to tell her yes with all his heart, but he felt as though he wouldn’t be able to live if he lied to her. “Partly, yes.”  
  
“Partly?”  
  
“I admit, I had not thought of you in years before I reread your letter,” he confessed, looking deep into her eyes, so she would know he told her nothing but the truth. “Something terrible happened to me in London, and I could not stay there longer. Before I found your letter in my drawer, I was planning to head over to France, to my father, but I didn’t. I chose you, _ma chérie._ And from now on, I will only ever choose you.”  
  
Granger looked lovely with a smile, truly she did. He wished that a smile was never too far away from her lips, that she always remained happy with him. “I’ve missed you as well, Draco. I am glad you’ve decided to come here.”  
  
“How is your life here in the States?” he eagerly asked. He wanted to know everything about her.  
  
Her smile dropped instantly, and her face slowly constructed into a stony expression. “It’s quite all right, not as my parents would have imagined, but at least I’m still alive.”  
  
“How are your parents?” he inquired, his mind recalling another important event in their previous relationship. “You left London with them, correct? You said you were travelling here to be safe from the war.”  
  
“Well, that wasn’t a very good plan since America entered the war shortly after,” she jested, but he could see the hidden pain in her eyes. “We survived the war, and we never thought it would be hard to find work here in Chicago, but it _was_ hard. Before we knew it, we owed a lot of people a lot of money. And they—they just couldn’t handle the stress, it seemed, and they passed away.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Draco squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “I’m sure they would be proud of you.”  
  
She forced a smile, a bittersweet one. “Thank you for the kind sentiments.”  
  
Draco frowned. “No worries.”  
  
But it seemed like he’d done something wrong because not even a few minutes later, she snatched her hand away from his and hastily got to her feet. “I had forgotten that I have to attend a gathering later tonight with my husband. I’m sorry to have cut our reunion short, Dra—Mr Malefoy.”  
  
Then, she left.  
  
It was only after three minutes did Draco realize what she'd said.  
  
Husband. Her husband. Granger was married. He had gone to Chicago to reclaim a married woman’s love, to rekindle a flame with a lover that now belonged to another man.  
  
Of course.  
  
How could he forget how much Fate hated him?

* * *

Draco awoke to the sound of footsteps approaching him, his hand inching closer to the gun he’d hidden under his pillow. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing still, and his heartbeat low.  
  
The footsteps halted right beside him, and he felt an uncomfortable chill settle in in his stomach. He acted calm and asleep though, even as his hold tightened around the gun.  
  
He felt the intruder’s breath fanning over his face. They were close enough that Draco could smell the perfume on their skin. To his surprise, the scent seemed familiar to his nostrils—the vanilla on their breath triggered unclear memories in his brain.  
  
“Open your eyes.” Draco jolted at the sound of Granger’s serene tone, his eyes opening and widening automatically.  
  
He pulled his gun out in shock, pointing the gun at the direction of her voice. Why was she here? In the middle of the early morning? How did she get in?  
  
Was she there to kill him?  
  
He heard her laugh, and he felt a need to see the grin that was surely playing about her lips at the moment. “Do not be afraid.”  
  
Acting like he was the bravest man in the world, Draco swallowed his fears down his throat but did not lower his gun. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I do not wish to hurt you, Mr Malefoy,” she said, rolling her eyes despite the polite tone. “I only came here to warn you.”  
  
“Warn me?” he repeated, his finger threatening to pull the trigger any minute now. After her suspiciously quick departure earlier today, Draco wasn’t quite sure if he could trust her. “About what?”  
  
He heard Granger take a deep breath before she asked, “Do you recall what you have seen two days ago? Only a few steps away from this building? I’m sure you do.”  
  
How could he forget? It had been one of the most frightening moments that happened in his entire life, but how did she know about that?  
  
The cold grip of fear held his heart tightly. Had she been following him all this time? What if she were with the police? What if she figured out his connection to the Draconian Syndicate? Was she there to arrest him? _Was she there to kill him?_  
  
“What do you know?” he rasped, his breath being clenched by apprehension as well.  
  
“I am the Shiv-Wife, Draco,” she softly answered, her words seemingly bouncing off the walls of his bedroom.  
  
At first, he did not understand what she meant. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d heard her correctly. But soon enough, words from two days ago flitted across his head, “ _Just let him go, Shiv-Wife’s going to take care of him, anyway._ ”  
  
He wished he could see if she were telling the truth in her eyes. He wished he could see the gleam of honesty when she’d spoken. But, alas, the darkness was a force nothing but light could fight against, and he was forced to believe her words. Even if she had not told the truth, it would be better for him to assume otherwise. He didn’t know what she could do to him, after all.  
  
Draco adjusted his hold on the gun, pushing aside all his attraction and affection for her. “So, you’re here to take care of me then? How are you going to do that? Are you going to kill me?”  
  
“I could,” said Hermione, and he could not fathom the laughter that laced her voice, “but I would hate to do that. Despite what the newspapers say, I don’t actually sleep with a knife under my pillow, Draco.”  
  
“I don’t know what the newspapers say,” he mentioned through gritted teeth. Malefoys had never been known for their gracious patience. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I came here to make sure you will not tell anybody about what you saw.”  
  
His heart thumped against his ribs at her words. Even when he’d been 16, she had the ability to make him apprehensive. Even then, he’d been nervous at the thoughts of the things he could possibly let her do to him.  
  
“And how are you going to do that?” he snarled, refusing to be vulnerable in her presence again. “Do you plan to sew my lips shut, Granger—to slice off my tongue, so you can ensure my silence?”  
  
She tittered, and his anger grew stronger. “That is precisely what my husband wants, but he can go fuck himself in Hell where he belongs if you ask me.”  
  
“Who’s your husband? Are you part of the Cosa Nostra? Are you here to end me?”  
  
He felt her dainty hands on his shoulders, and he stiffened in response. “Do calm yourself, Draco. I told you I am not here to harm you.”  
  
“Those men that killed the officer,” he trailed off, his irrational thoughts getting the best of him. “They’re from Sicily, aren’t they? You’re part of the Mafia, right?”  
  
“Their _parents_ were from Italy,” she corrected. “They’re not with the Mafia; they’re with the Chicago Outfit.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You don’t know much about gangs, do you?” Granger asked amusedly. If only she knew. “The Chicago Outfit is like the Mob, but it’s based here, in Chicago, of course. My husband is Alessandro Cattaneo, the Button Man. He leads the Maroonettes—those were the group of killers you saw two days ago. The Maroonettes are under the Outfit’s control, under Scarface’s control.”  
  
Draco took it all in with two deep breaths. Granger’s life was all gangs and guns, too. They were trapped within the same gaol—different cells, sure, but the same prison. He understood every kind of dilemma she was going through, for he went through them himself.  
  
“And who is Scarface?”  
  
“Someone you don’t want to mess with,” was all Hermione told him, and he felt as though that was enough for him to understand the man.  
  
“Why have you told me all this?”  
  
“I already told you—I came here to warn you.”  
  
“You also said that you were going to ensure my silence.”  
  
“That’s what my husband wants me to do,” she said before sighing heavily. “Alessandro is already keeping a close eye on you, and if you so much as blinked the wrong way, the Chicago Outfit will start terrorizing you, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”  
  
Draco thought about it for one moment.  
  
“You’re helping me,” Draco realized, finally lowering his gun. “Why?”  
  
“Did it never occur to you that I actually care for you?” She placed his gun on the bed and laced their fingers together. “That I really did write that letter because a foolish part of me wanted you to find me here? Did it never occur to you that I truly did love you once?”  
  
“That was a long time ago. It’s different now.”  
  
“Is it really so different?” she inquired, the thumb that rubbed circles over his knuckles soothing his very soul. “I still feel the same longing and desire for you, and I know you do, too. Isn’t that enough?”  
  
“Enough for what?”  
  
“For us.”  
  
All of a sudden, her lips were on his, and Draco decided that it _was_ enough, that her kiss itself was worth dying for.  
  
He pulled away when a question refused to leave his mind, resting his forehead on hers. “Why did you leave me so abruptly earlier, in the restaurant?”  
  
“Admittedly, I was afraid,” she confessed, her breath falling upon Draco’s lips. He wanted to save all those breaths she was exhaling for himself. “I was afraid of the feelings you stirred once again in my heart. I was afraid for you—what my husband could do to you if he ever finds out what you mean to me. I didn’t want you to get caught up in this crazy, stupid, dangerous life.”  
  
He wondered if he should tell her that he’d been part of that kind of life ever since he was conceived, that he knew exactly what she was going through, and that his life was most likely a lot more dangerous than hers was, but quickly convinced himself that discussion would be best for another time. “If that’s what you thought, why are you here now?”  
  
“I figured you were already trapped in this life as soon as you laid your eyes on that tortured copper, but I promised myself I was going to protect you and save you,” she continued fiercely, just like she did every other thing. “No matter what it takes, I will protect you.”  
  
Draco couldn’t help but capture her lips for his again. Her words were beautiful, and he loved beautiful things. His mother had raised him to have a soft spot for beautiful things. She had always told him that beautiful things often made people loved, and never had he felt more loved in his life than when Hermione whispered those beautiful things to him.  
  
He felt her tongue slipping inside his mouth, and it reminded Draco of a better time—when he was 16 and impressionable and searching for love in all the wrong places. He’d been a fool then and he remained a fool now, but Hermione Granger had to be the best damn thing that ever happened in his life—the smartest choice he’d ever made.  
  
Later, when she sat on top of him with a continuous set of moans shaping her lips, when he’d successfully brought her into sexual completion with a few strums of his fingers against her quim, and when he blissfully released everything he had inside of her, Draco stared at her in awe and thought, ‘ _Who needed Fate when I got Granger?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm thanking my beta, Littleguppy for editing this mess lol.
> 
> Kudos & comments are highly appreciated! ❤


	3. Fin

He followed her through dark streets and hidden pathways blindly, without doubts or second thoughts. She held his trust with two fingers over her heart, and he could only hope that she would not break it.  
  
Only five days ago had he almost shot her dead in his bedroom. Before they’d come out of his flat tonight, she’d had his hard and aching member in her mouth, sucking his bollocks in the most promiscuous manner. Hermione Granger was the only woman in his life that could play him and his emotions like they were nothing more than an asinine gambling game. Hermione Granger was the only woman he would gladly let to manipulate him and use him.  
  
Granger’s body, he’d found, changed over the years. She was thinner than she'd been when they were younger, but her womanly curves were fuller somehow and lovelier. Her brown curly hair—though shorter than before—made the perfect hold for whenever she ran her tongue along—  
  
“Quickly, Draco,” whispered Granger, frantically waving her hand to him.  
  
“No need to fear, _ma chérie,_ I will never be too far from you.” He chuckled, brushing aside the terrible feeling that struck in his stomach as soon as he looked at the establishment Granger had stopped in front of.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Would you care to tell me where we are, at least?”  
  
“Speakeasy,” she simply answered, forcibly taking his hand and pulling him in through the doors.  
  
What greeted him as soon as they entered was definitely… interesting.  
  
Trombones, trumpets, and drums, along with the chattering of what seemed to be hundreds of people clogged Draco’s ears. Women with short hair and even shorter frocks danced and laughed on a makeshift stage, visibly drunk with joy. Men with cigars in their mouths and glasses of champagne in their hands surrounded a gambling table, looking as though the game was more important than tomorrow.  
  
The continuous chatter of the numerous people began to heat up the air, causing Draco’s skin to release a sheen of sweat as Granger dragged him across the room. He was sure his face was beginning to redden from the heat as well.  
  
He felt a different sort of exhaustion once Granger finally stopped running around. He felt as though he’d just finished sprinting from Marseille to London, and his chest was tightening for some reason, his breath becoming irregular. “ _Putain._ ”  
  
Hearing him curse, Hermione turned towards him, a concerned expression shadowing her face. “Are you all right?”  
  
He nodded nonverbally, warily looking around the speakeasy club. “Didn’t expect this, is all.”  
  
“Well, don’t look so scared.” She laughed, the sound delightfully ringing in his ears before she turned back to the barman, casually speaking, “Moonshine, as always, Ronald.”  
  
“It’s Ron.” The barman, apparently named Ronald but preferred to be called Ron, narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Draco, nodding in response to Hermione’s statement. “Rum or whisky?”  
  
“You know the usual,” Hermione said. “Anything that’ll get me zozzled.”  
  
Ron nodded again, his messy red hair falling all over the place. “How ‘bout the towhead?”  
  
Granger laughed at the name, but Draco remained unamused. “I don’t drink.”  
  
When the barman finally turned around, he felt the cold snake of relief slithering up his spine. Ron’s glares reminded him far too much of the man that stalked him from his clinic to his home in London. It made him uneasy, making him think irrational thoughts such as what if he’d recognized him and that was why he’d spent so much time looking at him?  
  
“You don’t drink?”  
  
“No.” Draco shook his head, rubbing his palms over his trousers, trying to calm his nerves. “My mother never liked it when I drink.”  
  
“I seem to remember you and me drinking a few pints back in London a few years back,” Hermione teased, taking both his hands in her gloved ones.  
  
“I was young,” he pointed out, chortling, “and my mother was… still around back then.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question. He was sure he confirmed her suspicions when his gaze darted away from hers.  
  
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she offered, her fingers tightening and easing up his emotions. “How did she go?”  
  
Draco heaved a sigh full of burden, wishing they could talk about anything else. “Badly.”  
  
“I’m sure she'd be proud of you,” she said, echoing his words a few days back.  
  
He stared at their intertwined fingers, fascinated by the fact that her white gloves didn’t seem to be far off from his skin colour, wondering if his mother would truly be proud of him now that he was sleeping with a married woman—the same woman she'd said to have stolen his innocence.  
  
She wouldn’t be proud, no. In fact, his mother would chastise his behaviour and make him feel guilty about all the terrible things he’d done ever since she went away. His father, on the other hand, would laugh at his situation and maybe even give him an embrace for finally succumbing to the wicked ways of the Malefoys.  
  
“She wouldn’t be,” he rebuked. “Truth be told, I think she would be even more disappointed in me. Did you know that she was absolutely appalled by our… dalliance?”  
  
“Was she?”  
  
“Yes. Called us all sorts of names—improper, ungodly, ill-mannered, and dishonourable.”  
  
Granger laughed once again, and his night was suddenly brighter than before. The sound of her laughter seemed louder than the jazz music present in the speakeasy. And even though a roof fell over his head, he felt the moon’s white beams scattering throughout the night sky, lighting up the stars. Only God knew how much he loved this woman.  
  
“To be fair, we were quite improper back then for our age.”  
  
Then, a reminder set off in Draco’s brain. “Wouldn’t anyone be suspicious of us? You’re a well-known married woman here, after all. How are you so sure that there aren’t any of your husband’s henchmen here?”  
  
Granger shrugged, pulling her hands away from his. He realized immediately that the moment was ruined for the night. “Frankly, I do not think what I do is any of their business.”  
  
“You’re not afraid?”  
  
She smiled that bittersweet smile once again. “I think I’ve lost the ability to be afraid throughout the years.”  
  
“How?” For a short moment, Draco let himself envy her and the way she carried herself. He wished he could walk confidently on the streets while threats bounced off his chest. He wished he could have the courage to embrace a terrible sobriquet, to smile prettily for a spouse he wished to kill, and to be submissive in times when he wanted to act.  
  
“Gangsters always say that it’s not easy being gangsters, but I think us gun molls have it harder,” she said. “Violence surrounds us—an unnecessary part of our daily lives—yet we are expected to act like everything is all right, like nothing is wrong all the time. We are never allowed to lose our composure. Don’t get me wrong, this life has never truly frightened me, but I think it’s much harder than shooting and threatening people.”  
  
Draco was intrigued. “You believe that sitting pretty in a shiny frock is harder than having to stand up to dangerous men?”  
  
The bittersweet smile faded from her face, replaced by an awful scowl and a burning glare to match. “I stand up to dangerous men every day of my life, Mr Malefoy. In fact, that is the job my husband expects me to do. I am supposed to not only stand up to these men but also stalk them and figure out every detail of their unimportant lives. I’m expected to make them fear me without a gun, without any sort of weapon. I’m expected to convince them not to show up on their trials. I’m expected to blackmail them and threaten their families—don’t you dare disrespect my reputation by assuming I do nothing but sit prettily and look at pretty dresses.”  
  
He grimaced at her tone, at the way her face hardened with each word. He, most likely more than anyone, understood where she was coming from. His mother had been one of those gun molls she'd spoken of, after all, and he agreed that her life had never been an easy one. “If I’d offended you in any way, I’m sorry, Hermione. It will not happen again. Trust me when I say, I understand what you’re saying.”  
  
“How _could_ you understand?”  
  
Draco had his mouth open ready for a long discussion when Ron finally brought them their beverages—a tall glass of whiskey for Hermione and a cup of suspiciously-warm water for him. He hadn’t had a chance to speak about his heritage that night, Ron having joined in their conversation soon after.  
  
Maybe Granger didn’t have to know.

* * *

“You have to leave.” Those were four words he’d never expected to come out of Granger’s mouth while his lips made their way down her body. Those were four words he’d never expected to tear his heart in half. Those were four words he’d never expected to leave him convulsing in internal pain. Those were four words he’d never expected when they’d begun this… affair.

He gaped at her, his eyes surely wide and his heart surely ripped out from his chest. “Why?”  
  
“He knows,” she simply said, and Draco’s stomach dropped to his feet, “or at least he suspects that I’m not being faithful.”  
  
Fear was such a familiar emotion, perhaps even closer to him than his own father was. Ever since his mother died, he’d felt like it was the only thing left for him. He had nothing better to do than live in fear every single moment of the day. He thought he would’ve forgotten fear after being reconciled with Hermione, but clearly, that was not the case.  
  
For all the fear that churned in his stomach, Draco acted braver than he ever thought he could be. “So?”  
  
Hermione put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him off of her. “He’ll kill you.”  
  
“I am not afraid of dying,” he lied, his left eye twitching because of it. “ _Vous le valez bien._ ”  
  
“I don’t care if I’m worth dying for or not—I don’t want you dead.”  
  
“I thought you no longer had the ability to be afraid.”  
  
“I’m not scared. I just want you to live.”  
  
“Really? Because it seems to me that you are afraid of losing me.”  
  
“I’m not scared,” she growled, crossing her arms over her bare breasts. Pity. “I just don’t want my husband to slaughter you.”  
  
Draco chuckled at her choice of words. “Believe me, _mon cher,_ this will not be the first time someone wished to do so.”  
  
She scowled at him, her nostrils flaring and her lips set into a thin line. “Really? Have you ever been hunted down by a gangster, Draco? Have you ever been followed every day, not knowing if you would be able to live to see the next day or not? Has a gun ever even been pointed at your head—”  
  
“Yes,” he hissed, gripping her bare thighs and holding on tightly. “I’ve experienced all that and more, Granger. _Crois moi._ ”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“No, I’m not.” He sighed, rubbing her thighs as an attempt to soothe himself. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but I think I need to now.”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
He let silence reign over them for a few seconds, letting it hang over the air and rot before he spoke up again, using a hushed tone, “My father is Lucius Malefoy.”  
  
Granger was shocked, and that let him know she recognized the name. “What?”  
  
“Let me explain—”  
  
“How can you explain the fact that you’re the son of one of the most dangerous man in France?”  
  
“He’s not that dangerous,” he mumbled, but she kept on rambling.  
  
“I should’ve known. It crossed my mind before, of course, but I thought your last names were just a coincidence. There had to be a lot of Malefoys in France, right? Still, I should’ve known—you even look like the way they describe him. White hair, pale complexion, and pointed face—how didn’t I realize this sooner? I’m so stupid!”  
  
He frowned. He didn’t believe he was pointy at all, and his hair wasn’t white. “Granger—”  
  
“That’s why you sleep with a gun under your pillow, isn’t it?” she continued to ask. “The violence—it’s embedded in you. That’s why you were faking an American accent—that’s why you were pretending to be someone you’re not!”  
  
He gripped her right wrist, the one that had a finger pointed at him in accusation after her rant. “Yes, Hermione. That _is_ the reason for all those things. Now, would you let me explain myself before you share your opinions?”  
  
Her face turned red, but she nodded silently.  
  
“You’re wrong on one small bit.” He smiled slightly once he noticed her attempting to gather her rationality. “There’s not a lot of Malefoys in France, or anywhere in the world, really. There’s only me, my father, and my insignificant distant family.”  
  
“Draco—”  
  
“My family has always been criminals,” he cut her off with a mild glare. “My great grandfather, Septimus Malefoy, was the one who came up with the idea of forming a bunch of criminals with the same fucked up mindset as him. Back then, it was nothing more than a group of people who do terrible things to get money, but my great grandfather turned it into something much larger.”  
  
“The Draconian Syndicate,” Granger supplied. “Were you named after—”  
  
“Yes.” He nodded distractedly. “My father’s whole life was Draconian. It was my father who made friends with the right people and made sure that Draconian was respected and recognized by the other gang within _Le Milieu._ He’d thought it fitting for his heir to be named after what he thinks is his legacy.”  
  
“That’s terrible,” she commented, a sympathetic expression falling upon her face. “What a heavy burden to be placed upon you.”  
  
“My father always told me that I am Draconian, and Draconian is me,” he told her with a determined look but a sad smile. “I ought to finally take responsibility.”  
  
“Is that why you came here? To escape your responsibilities?”  
  
“Sort of. My father got into a gambling dispute with the Antoinette Zabini. Do you know her?”  
  
She frowned in concentration, seemingly turning her brain upside down to look for the correct answer. Draco knew when she got it when her face lightened up with a small smile. “I know that the Zabinis are a part of the Mafia. Antoinette must be the gun moll?”  
  
“She’s the wife of the leader, but she’s certainly a lot smarter and respected than her fool of a husband,” he answered. “Anyways, my father lost a game, and for some reason, I still do not know, he refused to pay and fled back to Marseille. My mother paid for his cowardly actions.”  
  
He fiddled with his hands, not even noticing that he’d glanced away from Hermione, focusing on not weeping. “She was killed by the—by Antoinette’s men, and they sent two of their men for me as well. One of them stalked me every night from my workplace to my home. When I managed to scare that one off, another visited me at midnight. He didn’t surv—I killed him.”  
  
His mother’s shame and disappointment weighed on each of his shoulders, making him want to curl into a ball and sob until he was sure Narcissa Black loved him again.  
  
“My father wanted me to go back to France,” he continued, a painful lump in his throat building up. “I didn’t want to—I was going to, but I didn’t want to. I was just about to write to him before I found your letter. Then, I went here because I wanted to start a new life. Starting anew would’ve been something my mother wanted for me, and I thought—I thought everything was getting better until… until the gang killing. And I just—I realized I’m forever trapped.”  
  
A familiar touch caressed his face, and he blinked away the tears that somehow gathered in his eyes. Hermione’s thumb wiped one that dripped down his cheek. When his eyes finally focused on her, his entire body was overwhelmed by warmth—just warmth and a hint of something he knew he’d felt before with her.  
  
“We’ll be all right,” she told him, and he believed her, unable to fight the arms that went around him in a comforting embrace.  
  
He’d told her everything he went through for the past few months until they fell asleep, huddled into one another. It felt so good to share his soul with another person.

* * *

“Why can’t you just leave him?” he had to ask the morning after their soul-baring conversation. It had been a question that had been brewing in his mind ever since she'd told him she was married. His mother left his father, so why couldn’t Hermione do the same?

“It’s not that simple.”  
  
“Why not? You just have to leave him.”  
  
“I can’t leave him.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
From the twitching of her left eyebrow, Draco knew she was getting more annoyed by the minute. After a few seconds of her not saying anything, he was afraid she wouldn’t speak to him any longer, but thankfully, she spoke up, “Remember when I told you how my parents died?”  
  
What did that have to do with anything?  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I told you they owed a lot of money to a lot of people, and that’s true, but they borrowed money from the Outfit,” she explained, unable to look at him in the eye. “They weren’t able to pay it back and got killed for it—by Button Man, my husband. I married him because he told me that if I did, my parents’ debts would be forgotten. He lied. And I can’t leave him knowing the Maroonettes will stalk me for the rest of my life if I did.”  
  
Draco swallowed, knowing all too well how serious gangs took certain debts. When he was younger, his father had taught him to make anybody who wasted their money suffer, and he’d thought for a long time that people who borrowed from the Mob, knowing they wouldn’t be able to pay it back, were idiots. He never really knew what it felt like to live without old money backing his every step and decision.  
  
“There’s nothing in the world I want more than my husband dying.” This time, Draco could see a terrifying glint in her brown eyes. “But I’m not stupid. I know the consequences of me killing him, and it’s not worth the risk. At least, not yet.”  
  
“What are you waiting for?”  
  
“The right moment. I need at least two plans before I take some action.”  
  
“Let me help you.”  
  
Her determined gaze turned into a glare. “No! This is _my_ life and _my_ problem. I don’t want you getting involved in all this mess.”  
  
Draco scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m your paramour—I’m more involved in this mess than you think.”  
  
“Well, I don’t need your help,” she said, her posture stiffening into a defensive stance. “ _I_ swore to protect you _,_ and I will.”  
  
Draco’s mood softened, subconsciously approaching her. “I know that, but I’d like to protect you as well. I want you safe. I want you alive.”  
  
“I am,” she assured him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips hovering over his.  
  
“For now, that is,” he corrected, pressing his mouth into hers for a short moment. “I want you _always_ safe.”  
  
She played with the hairs that reached the back of his neck, and he shivered in response. “I’m afraid being safe for eternity isn’t an option for a gangster’s wife like me, Mr Malefoy.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” he insisted, his mind slowly going blank as her lips continued to tease him. “If you were _my_ wife, I’ll make sure no one even looks at you the wrong way. If you were mine, you’ll get to live forever as a pampered queen.”  
  
Draco felt her chuckle vibrating against his lips. It drove him crazy. “That sounds lovely, _mon amour,_ but does it sound so far-fetched if I said I don’t want to be a queen?”  
  
“You’ll only be my wife, then,” he said, giving her another short kiss. “No blackmailing the officers. No threatening witnesses. No killing the reluctant. Just Mrs Hermione Malefoy.”  
  
She pulled him in for a deeper kiss, moaning delightfully when Draco ran his tongue along her lips.  
  
“Tell me that’s a promise,” she demanded after she'd pulled away, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears for some reason.  
  
He let a genuine smile grace his face. “That’s a promise.”

* * *

Footsteps walked a little too close to Draco for the second time this year. This time, he wasn’t feeling afraid. Having just parted with Hermione from the speakeasy they frequented, the remains of the rush she gave him lingered in his skin, and he felt like he was on top of the world.

He didn’t listen for how heavy the footstep was, or how threatening the man’s figure would be if it loomed over him. For the first time in his life, he let his fear of the unknown fade into nothing. For the first time in his life, he let the reckless Black blood flow freely in his veins. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have to fake courage because he actually felt it at the moment.  
  
Hermione Granger-Cattaneo was certainly becoming a great influence.  
  
Even as he felt the familiar coolness of a gun pressed against his back, Draco couldn’t let the grin off his face slip.  
  
“Scream and I’ll shoot,” the man growled from behind him.  
  
Draco studied their surroundings, glad to see that the closest person to them was on the other street. If someone were to die tonight (someone that wasn’t him), no one would see it.  
  
“Good evening to you as well, sir,” Draco greeted politely, his legs pushing forward as the man behind him forced him to walk towards his flat building.  
  
Somehow, nobody noticed anything wrong when they came in the building and entered Draco’s flat, the man binding him to chair almost immediately.  
  
Once he was sure Draco couldn’t escape, the man began the interrogation with a simple inquiry, “Who are you? And don’t tell me lies. I’ll know if you do.”  
  
He compared the man’s way of questioning to that of his father’s. His father was never angry whenever he questioned a ‘prisoner’. Above all, Lucius Malefoy valued composure. He’d never let his captives rattle him. In fact, he would even pour them a glass of the most expensive wine he could find before ‘discussing’ with them. His father made his prisoners comfortable before killing them.  
  
He came to the conclusion that the man who held him captive must be a lot more ruthless than his father and maybe less as smart.  
  
“My full legal name is John Orion Whi—” Draco felt the brute force of the man’s knuckle on his left cheekbone, and he felt a need to cradle the bruising skin in his hand.  
  
“Bullshit,” the man hissed, gripping at his hair and tugging it painfully. “I know who you really are.”  
  
Despite the situation, Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes and mumble, “Then, why ask?”  
  
This time, it was the man’s palm he felt hitting his cheek. He hoped the sound alerted his neighbours.  
  
“You’re Lucius’s boy, aren’t you?” Draco felt the man’s disgusting warm spit right on the tip of his nose. “You think you’re so hard, French boy? You think just because you grew up in your father’s mansion, everything’s going to be handed to you? You think you can fuck my wife without consequences?”  
  
So this was the _intimidating_ Button Man.  
  
“Most of the time, she fucks _me,_ actually.” The comment earned him a sharp kick to the stomach, causing his bile to begin rising up.  
  
“Why did you come here?”  
  
Unfortunately for Granger’s husband, his father had taught him how to act if he got captured as well. Draco didn’t remember much of his father’s lessons—just that, most of the time, all he needed to do was calm the fuck down.  
  
“You wouldn’t believe me,” he drawled as though this conversation was the most boring one he’d ever had. To be fair, it was.  
  
Granger’s husband directed a punch to his face again, and Draco’s world became a nothing but a blurry picture. Everything was white—no, black. Everything was fading but alive. Everything was… nothing?  
  
Even though the shock that came from Hermione’s declaration of love earlier still ran throughout his entire body, it wasn’t enough to keep him away from losing consciousness and passing out like a schoolboy who’d never been punched his whole life.  
  
It had to be because of the funny-smelling alcohol she made him drink earlier.

* * *

Draco blinked the world into existence, the familiar colours of his flat brightening up his vision. 

He tried to raise his arms over to his eyes and rub them, but he found that he could not move at all. For a few seconds, he thought he was dead and his flat was where he’d spend the afterlife, but thankfully, Hermione’s face appeared in front of him.  
  
She was saying something to him, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, hear her. With her hand gestures and exaggerated mouthing, Hermione looked like she came from a film.  
  
Draco shook his head a few more times until his hearing went back to him.  
  
“Are you all right?” he finally heard Hermione ask.  
  
Despite the numbing pain he felt, he answered, “Yes.”  
  
Then, everything came back to him.  
  
He’d been a captive of Granger’s husband, and he’d lost consciousness soon after a few beatings. What was Granger doing here? Where was her husband?  
  
Seemingly having heard Draco’s thoughts, Hermione told him, “He’s dead.”  
  
Draco stared into her brown eyes, searching for an answer. All he saw was firmness and a wee hint of guilt. Her expression told him no answers at all. In fact, he’d never been more confused in his life.  
  
“Hermione,” he called out with a soft voice, all of a sudden having the ability to reach for her newly-scarred arms, “What happened?”  
  
“He’s dead,” she repeated, spitting the words out of her mouth like something inedible. “I killed him.”  
  
He looked deeper into her eyes, wondering how she managed not to cry yet and realized she was a strong woman—a much stronger person than he was—and she wouldn’t be the type to faint at the sight of a corpse or the type to have shaking hands before pulling the trigger. She was Hermione Granger; she probably tortured her husband first before killing him. She probably fought the gun off of her husband and won. She was probably the strongest woman he’d ever known in his life.  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
She glanced at the direction of Alessandro Cattaneo’s corpse that was still bleeding on his floor. Draco noticed the stab wounds on the man’s chest; she mustn’t have shot him dead then.  
  
“I’m glad he’s dead,” she told him in a way that he knew was true.  
  
He turned his eyes to the corpse again before shakily standing up and giving the love of his life an embrace, not because he thought it would comfort her, but because he knew it would comfort himself. She had the ability to make him feel stronger than he actually was, and he hoped some of her courage would pass to him.  
  
“I’m sorry I was late.”  
  
“I’m alive because of you, and that’s all that matters.”  
  
Hermione gripped his shoulders like he was the only thing that could keep her alive, burying her face into his shoulder and releasing what must be a relieved sigh. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you.” He pressed his lips into the top of her head, marvelling at the state of her still-neat and pinned up curls. With her in his arms, Draco felt safer than he ever had since his mother died. The way she nuzzled her nose into his shoulder let him know that there was no one who could protect him better than she could. With her, he was loved. With her, he was happy.  
  
The rest of the world seemed so far away from them at the moment, out of their grasp and hold. The rest of the world didn’t matter anyway for they had always been against them and their love. At this moment, Hermione was his world, and he was hers.  
  
The exhaustion and pain he’d felt no longer mattered. Only the strength she gave him mattered. Only the love oozing from both of them mattered. Only she truly mattered to him.

* * *

“What are we going to do?” His hands remained on her body, his head lying on her stomach. He couldn’t bear to part from her. Not yet. Not ever.

“We have to leave,” she softly told him, her fingers tangling themselves in his hair. “I’ve already packed your things.”  
  
He was sure she hadn’t much to pack; he’d been ready to leave ever since he’d witnessed the killing of the police officer. “Where do you want to go?”  
  
“Somewhere safe,” she said, the tips of her fingers on his scalp sending shivers down his spine. “Somewhere away from here.”  
  
“London?”  
  
“I can’t. I’ll be constantly reminded of my parents.”  
  
He thought of the horrible state he’d been in when he was still in London after his mother died and silently agreed with her. His mother’s presence loomed over him every day in London, and he wasn’t certain if he could live in a constant state of guilt.  
  
“We could go to France,” he suggested lowly when he thought of his other parent and his letter. “We’ll be—”

“We can’t,” she interrupted, tugging at his hair gently. “I know you don’t get along with your father, Draco. I don’t want to force you into—”  
  
“We’ll be safe there,” he insisted, begrudgingly acknowledging the (barely-there) love his father had for him. “My father would do anything to keep me alive.”  
  
Hermione went quiet for a while, and he could practically hear her brain turning and thinking. “You live in Marseille, right?”  
  
He nodded. “Yes. If you don’t want to stay in my father’s manor, then we can go live in the cottage my father built for my mother.”  
  
“You live in a manor?” she asked sceptically.  
  
Draco chuckled at her incredulous tone. “When I was younger, yes. I haven’t been there since I was 15, though, but it’s time for me to grow out of the adolescent angry feelings I feel for my father.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, _mon chérie,_ I still very much dislike my father, but sometimes I have to put certain feelings aside to keep you safe.”  
  
“Are you certain we’ll be safe there?”  
  
He placed a sweet kiss on her navel. “There’s no safer place for a Malefoy than France.”  
  
“I’m not a Malefoy.”  
  
“Not yet.” He grinned, his mind projecting thoughts of Hermione in wedding robes. “You will be soon.”  
  
“I expect a proposal from you in La Tour Eiffel as soon as we step foot in France, Monsieur Malefoy,” she teased, a chuckle lacing her words.  
  
“Whatever you wish for is granted, _amoreux._ ” He kissed her stomach once more. “ _Je t’aime._ ”  
  
She continued on running her fingers in his hair. “When will we leave?”  
  
“As soon as we are able to.”  
  
“How about now?”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Now,” she firmly repeated. “I just want to leave this place and never come back.”  
  
Draco stood to his feet, holding out a hand for her to take, smiling nervously. “Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Manoir des Malefoy looked the same as ever—white, grand, and beautiful. In the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione staring in awe at the gigantic pillars that held the whole place up. 

Looking upward, Draco almost staggered in shock as he saw the ceiling painting that certainly hadn’t been there before. Upon further observation, he realized that it was a copy of the family portrait his mother had made them pose for when he was nine years old. It was an oddly thoughtful thing for his father to do. Draco wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen the ceiling himself.  
  
He felt Hermione’s hand tug on his robes. When he stared at her in question, she tilted her head in the direction of the stairs.  
  
Turning his gaze to what she was referring to, he saw Lucius Malefoy himself, standing atop the staircase with a strange small smile on his face and a cane in hand. Of course, five men behind him stood to protect him as well, in addition to the several men standing on every step of the staircase.  
  
Before he could think of a quick quip, his father greeted him with a surprisingly-warm tone, “Welcome home, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my last note, I have a few people I wanna thank! 
> 
> First is Littleguppy, of course, for beta'ing this story. Second and third are In_Dreams and Kyonomiko for hosting this wonderful fest! I love Dramione AUs, and I feel like our fandom lacks the really crazy and creative AUs—honestly, all I see everywhere in this ship is Voldemort Wins AU—I think it was a great idea to have a Dramione fest with prompts based on the most creative AUs you can get!! This fest is all the Dramione AU I needed in my life and more!!! Thank you, girls!!! Well done!!! ❤
> 
> Paalam! ;)


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